


French Flair

by esama



Category: Sherlock (TV), Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Temeraire Fusion, Dragon!Sherlock Holmes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:43:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>None of them knew what to do with the egg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	French Flair

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net on 03/21/2012  
> Proofread by Wan Yun and Darlene

None of them knew what to do with the egg found from a French fort they had been set out to destroy. Though the fort was destroyed, the egg had - naturally - been saved; it was a large, impressive looking specimen, and even in the infantry they knew that the larger species fetched a handsome prize, if captured whilst still in shell, so there had never been any concept of leaving it behind, to be blown up along with the fortifications. But afterwards, once they’d moved on with their men and equipment, none of them knew what to do with it.

"Well," John's assistant, Murray, said while the surgeon examined the egg thoughtfully. "I suppose we will have to hope that we make it to port and can hand it over to the Navy, to be taken to England and harnessed. Aside from that, I have no idea."

Neither did John, really. He was in no way an expert on dragons, but the fact that he had family in the Aerial Corps – his _brother_ , people thought, and he gladly let them – was known in the infantry, which had set him aside. No one else knew more than what the rumours and reports told, which as usual wasn't much, and so it had fallen to him to gauge the egg's condition and health, little use as it was. He was a surgeon – a _doctor_ in fact – but only for humans; he had no notion about what was proper for a dragon's egg.

"What do you suppose the prize for it will be?" Murray asked, glancing around idly. The Army wasn't exactly the prime position to be capturing prizes of any sort, so the whole regiment was alight with interest about the egg's possible worth – the only hope of little bit of extra they’d had in the entire sorry campaign.

"I'm sure I don't know, Bill," John said, sighing, and rapped his knuckles against the dark, black shell of the egg. "But I'll say this: thank god the egg is so hard. I wouldn't hazard a penny for its survival, were it soft or thin shelled, not in these conditions." As it was, they had some trouble in securing the thing, and it rattled and shook terribly in the cart whenever they were on the move, and were it any more fragile, it would've surely cracked already.

After the inspection, which brought no new knowledge -as expected, nothing had changed - John turned away and cast a thoughtful look over his patients. All in all, taking and destroying the fort hadn't cost them much – no deaths, only a few mild injuries – but he was worried about a few whose wounds seemed inclined to fester, and a couple of patients were starting to show the signs of malarial fevers. So, without sparing the egg another thought, he eased himself down from the cart and left the thing behind, to perform a more expert inspection on those whose anatomy he _did_ know.

 

* * *

 

 

The whole of their camp was woken in the middle of the night, at the night watcher's excited cries of: "It’s moving, it’s moving – Major, Doctor Watson! The _egg is moving_!" But before any of them had a chance to do more than be startled halfway to wakefulness, the egg had done something much more than moving.

John, from his place not that far away, with Bill at his side and one of the patients at his other, could hear it; a curious sort of snap, like ice breaking, and then a enormous crack, followed by a creaking of wood and irritated hissing. He blinked, bewildered, and sat up just as torches were lit from the dying embers of the camp fire, and then there was enough light to see.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop gawking like idiots, I'm only a _dragon_ ," the dragonet snapped at their staring faces, shaking its wings and irritably picking a bit of shell from its back. Or rather _his_ back, as the voice was definitely male – and rather deep at that. "Now," the dragonet said, once he was satisfied with himself, and sat down, looking at them all imperiously from his perch on the cart. "Is anyone going to feed me?"

For a moment no one did anything, no one knew what to do. None of them had expected the thing to hatch, and therefore had no notion about what to do with it if it did – all of them had expected that the egg would remain just that, an _egg_ , until they had the time to pass it over to someone else and, hopefully, collect their prize money for it in the mean while. But the realisation dawned quickly, piercing through the haze of lingering sleep – and then there was a hasty retreat from near the cart, men stumbling over their feet in their haste to escape, much to the dragon's obvious disgust.

"Britain's best and brightest you are," the dragonet muttered shaking his head, and nosed at his hide in something like nonchalance.

"D-doctor Watson?" the major asked, coming to the surgeon's side as John stood up. "What-what should we do?"

Suppressing the desire to snap, not for the first time, that he was a doctor and not a dragonologist, John shook his head, and tried to remember what Harry had told him of dragons – which was precious little. "Well… I suppose there’s only one thing we can do," he said after a moment. "One of us must try and harness the beast, and name it, and then the one who harnessed it must feed it."

The retreat even further back was almost universal at the sound of his verdict, and pale faces quickly grew wild-eyed, as the men looked between him and the dragon, horrified at the concept of going near it or trying anything like harnessing it. "Good god," John snapped at them, while the dragon shifted its wings, queerly pale eyes gleaming in the darkness. "It's either that or have the blessed beast turn feral, and that would be a farewell to any hope of prize money for the beast."

"Yes, indeed," the dragon said, with narrowed, thoughtful eyes, and sniffed at them. "Pull yourselves together. Men have been harnessing dragons since the time of the Romans and before, it's nothing to go into hysterics about," it said, startling John and the rest of them. "Not that I particularly _need_ a harness," it added, somewhat defensively. "Useless thing for a hatchling, to be sure. But a name wouldn't go amiss."

"H-how does it know about _Romans_?" the major asked wildly.

"I heard you," the dragonet answered irritably, and sniffed again. "So, is anyone here going to make the offer? I'd rather have it done _before_ the sun rises, mind you – I am getting hungry, you know."

No one made a move, and the major – who had always been something of a dull minded fellow, good at following orders but not making them – only stared. John, looking from one man to another and then at the dragon, sighed. At this rate, they were only going to make a worse debacle of the whole thing, and as it is they stood at an increasing risk of losing the beast with every passing second.

Harry would never forgive him if he lost Britain a dragon like this.

"Alright," he said, gathering himself and stepping forward, snatching a coil of rope as he did. "Let's have a look at you."

The dragon blinked, and slowly stood up from his forcedly casual position, perking up a bit but trying to very much look like he didn't. "Ah, well," he said, as John stepped forward. "Yes, of course, you will do very nicely, Doctor."

John paused in the act of trying to make some sort of loop from the rope, to work as a harness. "How'd you know I'm a doctor?"

"Oh, it's simple. I've been listening to you talking for nearly a week now; your voice is unmistakeable. And besides, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes: the difference in uniforms and behaviour, the glaring fact that the major came to you for advice," the dragon said superiorly. "You could be no one else but Doctor Watson."

John blinked, all the men around him blinked. How the dragon could see that his uniform was different in the darkness, he had no idea, but that wasn't nearly as startling as what the creature had said. "And that's it?" John asked, bewildered and with his temper rising; it was somehow grating, to be so easily cast. "You know all that, fresh from the shell, and think it's good enough to choose me?" And somehow that was just what was happening – the dragon choosing him, rather than the opposite.

"Problem?" the dragon asked with a keen, emotionless stare, cocking his head slightly.

John exhaled and then glanced around. All the men were staring intently, but none of them showed any sign of real interest: no, they were only morbidly curious, like watching a hanging or a particularly bloody bit of field surgery. Not one of them had any interest or – John thought privately – the mental fortitude to make the attempt. Especially not if the dragonet was as bloody minded as it seemed right then.

Shaking his head, he stepped forward without further word and threw the loop of rope over the beast's dark head, making him start with surprise. "There," he said, with more conviction than he felt. "Now for a name." Which was where he came up short, his mind absolutely empty of anything suitable.

The dragon eyed him, looking very unimpressed, and said; "I think Sherlock will suit," somewhat derisively and then jumped down from the cart, setting it rocking on its wheels. His move tugged at the rope John had thrown over him and nearly pulled the doctor to his knees, but the dragon didn't seem to mind. "Now, I'd like some food, if you people aren't too busy gaping."

"Good god," someone said, faintly, while John eyed the beast at the end of the rope with unease, wondering whether or not the terms of harnessing had actually been met, or if the dragon was somehow _playing_ with him, and pretending that they had.

The major, finally coming out of his useless shock, cleared his throat and called for one of the privates to fetch a bit of salted pork from their meagre stores. John, a little uncertain, stepped to the dragon's side and kept it away from the men, who were hurriedly skittering backwards under the beast's keen, pale stare.

"There will be food, shortly," he said, crouching by the dragonet and giving it a look as it harrumphed and sat down to wait. Now that the deed was done, and the dragon showed no signs of intending to eat any of the men, flying off or causing any undue damage, John gave himself the time to look it over.

He had very little eye for dragons, but he thought the beast looked well enough – bluish black throughout and evenly coloured. It was obviously still small, a little bigger than the biggest dog he had ever seen, all sleek and sinewy. The wings, which were neatly folded at the dragon's sides, were as dark as the rest of him, and as far as he could see there was not a hint of the flashier colours he had seen on some dragons – including the Longwing Harry served on, which had been rather vividly coloured with flashing blue and yellow.

Eyeing the dragon's still short but already slightly curved horns, John wondered how big it would become, and what breed it was.

"Fleur-de-Nuit," the dragon said without as much as glancing at him.

"I… beg your pardon?"

"I am a Fleur-de-Nuit, or Flower of the Night," Sherlock said. "A nocturnal dragon, a French breed. I will be middling in size, approximately fifteen to eighteen tons in weight, fifty to eighty feet in length, with a wing span of ninety feet at most."

"Oh," John said and then narrowed his eyes. "How did you…"

"It was obvious. You were trying to measure me with your eyes, and by your expression it was clear you were wondering about my conformation and how big I would grow. And it is only logical that you should be interested in my breed," Sherlock answered, yawning.

"You could tell what I thinking just by my expression?" John asked, blinking. "That's… brilliant." He hadn't thought dragons could do that.

Sherlock preened, though trying obviously not to, and said with fake nonchalance: "Oh, not really. Human expressions are ridiculously easy to read, now that I can see them."

John let out a small laugh. "Alright, if you say so. How, exactly, do you know what breed you are, anyway?"

"I heard the French officers talking about me often enough, I am not deaf," the dragon said and gave him a flat look. "Are all humans as slow as you? I thought I must've just been misfortunate enough to only have met foolish people, but you're supposed to be an intelligent learned man, are you not?" he asked.

Not sure if he was supposed to be insulted or if he ought to admonish the beast for his language, John was rather glad that the food was brought in just then – or brought out, at any rate. None of the soldiers dared to come closer, so John had to fetch the salted pork from ten feet away and bring it back to Sherlock, who after sniffing at it fell upon the meat with vigour.

"Could do with little less salt," the dragonet said critically afterwards and licked at his talons before looking up at John. "Now where's the rest of it?"

 

* * *

 

 

In the slow march towards the port, Sherlock ate, talked, and slept. Mostly he did the latter, grumbling about the light the moment the sun came up, curling both his wings over his head like some sort of overly large bat, and falling into a stupor on the back of the cart where they had kept his egg. It was good, and made it easier for them to travel without having to mind the beast too much – but it made the nights intolerable, as Sherlock would then wake up hungry, often irritable, always derisive and, once he was over the indignation of being hatched and nearly rejected by the whole company, curious.

It was the eating that was the biggest problem. They didn't have enough to feed a growing, ferociously hungry dragon, and so the Major eventually dispatched several of their better shots to go ahead and hunt down whatever they could find on the way. None of it seemed to be quite enough, and though Sherlock didn't complain _much_ about hunger when there was no food, he would always ask for more when there was.

However, the talking was another problem in its own right – and there was a lot of talking. Sherlock criticized and commented on everything, from the rattling of the cart to the slowness of the regiment, eventually offering that they'd go much faster if only they'd do this or that, move the supplies separately perhaps, or break the regiment into sections so that they wouldn't all be suffering the rate of their slowest members. He also asked about the oddest of things, peering at the men's clothing and weapons and asking questions about wrinkles and buttons and sleeves of all things.

And then there was the curiosity.

"I don't suppose you could provide me with a quantity of gunpowder?" the dragonet would ask, after spending some time examining the guns they were hauling with them. "I would very much like to experiment."

"No, I will not get you gunpowder," John said, having very quickly grown tired of such requests – the previous ones having been about clothing and tobacco and firewood and salt and meat and bones and two dozen other things. Sherlock, while being critical about everything, was also very curious about their durability and effect, and would've broken the whole world to bits just to see how long it would take, how much effort, and what the consequences were.

For John, the whole thing was at first bewildering, then irritating, and then oddly enough it became acceptable. He’d been an army surgeon for better the part of ten years, for want of a better job, and in those ten years he had suffered through much – including a shoulder wound that still ached whenever the wind blew from the north, but which he, from sheer stubbornness, hadn't let stop him from working. Sherlock was something new, but he’d suffered worse – and though the upheaval of his daily schedule was beyond irritating, he grew used to it.

"I suppose I will have to be nocturnal myself, from here on," he mused to Bill Murray, who had now taken up most of his duties in the regiment; not much of a task, really, with so few patients and the port with its hospitals already on the horizon.

"Well, if you don't mind me saying, better you than anyone else here," Murray said and then flashed a little grin. "Sherlock's a wilful beast and no mistake; I don't think anyone of us except you could hold his ground against him."

John snorted, and conceded a point there. Sherlock already had half of their ragtag group running to his whims, and the Major was scampering to keep Sherlock fed, especially after the beast had figured out how to get at their stores one late night when John had fallen asleep and hadn't been keeping a close enough eye on him. Dragons were said to be difficult to manage, but Sherlock was something else: not very threatening physically, though he would soon be too big for any cart to carry, but as far as his personality went… well, he would've been dominating a man weaker spirited than John with absolute ease.

But John was a doctor and army surgeon besides; all medical men had to grow tough skin and a strong bite to manage in the job. All the military branches were full of stubborn, hard headed, foolhardy idiots, most of whom drank entirely too much, and any surgeon that couldn't stand strong under their airs and graces couldn't hold a job for long. John had always been stubborn by nature – the army had only made him more so, and thus Sherlock didn't get any quarter from him.

Well, not much of one, anyway.

"I am bored," the dragon complained once Murray had gone, and nudged at John's side with his hind leg, almost a kick – the beast was lying in a graceless posture, mostly on his back, and he looked wholly ridiculous. "Bored, bored, bored –"

"I could read to you?" John offered, while moving away from the kicking leg.

"Oh, dull – you've already read all your books and I remember them perfectly. No point reading them again," the beast sighed, and tried to kick him again. "I'm bored," he repeated in wheedling tones. "Maybe we should go flying."

John snorted at that, and snatched a hold of the sharp-taloned foot, holding it firm. "Not bloody likely," he said. "You're too small."

"I won't be for long, and then we will have to fly – the carts won't be enough to carry me," Sherlock said and then opened his pale, pale eyes. "I have been considering that, however. I won't be able to fly freely in the daylight, not with my eyes – we will either have to make camp for the day and then fly after the regiment in the night, or some sort of screen for my eyes must be devised. Tell me - does anyone here have any glass?"

No one did, and so Sherlock's idea of using smoke tinted glass to make a sort of goggles for him to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun was soon discarded, but John’s suggestion of using a veil to cover his eyes proved to be good enough. It didn't help much, however; Sherlock was still inherently a nocturnal creature, and grew tired and drowsy – and even more irritable than usual – being kept awake during the day.

They didn't fly, however. There was no way for John to fly with him, no way to fashion a proper harness. As it was, John had forsaken the rope after few days, as it was more or less useless at holding Sherlock anyways, as the dragon could easily slip it off and then he grew too big. So, instead Sherlock was forced to walk along side with them, often holding the tail with John, complaining all the way.

 

* * *

 

 

The colonel received the report of Sherlock with an expressionless face and thoughtful eyes, and personally came to visit John at the grounds set aside for him and Sherlock in the backyard of the barracks. Sherlock was fast asleep underneath a tree at the time, gracelessly wrapped in his wings as always, grumbling slightly even in his sleep.

"A Fleur-de-Nuit, you say?" the colonel asked, stroking his moustache as he watched the blue-black dragon. "Well that is something. I've seen one of them in action once, a bloody miserable battle it was too. Damned hard beasts to fight against, and to have one on our side… that is definitely something. We obviously don't have any officers of the Aerial Corps here, and at most it will take a couple of months for word to reach Gibraltar about this, but… it is definitely something," he murmured, and then turned to John. "Your name is John Watson, was it? The surgeon? And you harnessed the beast?"

"Yes, sir," John answered, folding his arms and unwilling to back down under the contemplative, slightly judgemental gaze.

"Why you and not one of the men?" the colonel asked, casting a glance towards the major who flushed a bit.

Deciding to spare the man from any accusation of cowardice, as right as it was, John glanced at Sherlock and answered. "I have family in the Aerial Corps, so I have some prior knowledge of their practices," he said. "At this point it doesn't matter one jot who harnessed the beast though – he is fully harnessed now, and you'll be hard-pressed to try un-harnessing him from me and then pairing him with someone else. And besides, Sherlock is a damned obstinate beast, and I doubt he'd stand for the attempt at any rate."

"Hm. Well, best leave things standing as they are then," the colonel said, shaking his head. "We will send word and see what comes of it. In the mean while I suppose the creature will require feeding. How much does he eat?"

"Right now? He eats everything put in front of him and will complain when he runs out, and he's most likely to eat more as he grows," John said. "I'd say a sheep or a pig per night, though I'd be happy to give him a whole cow and see him eat as much of it as he can."

"A cow per day. That'll be a strain on our funds," the colonel murmured, frowning. "Well, I'll see what I can do about it."

And thankfully he did – and a cow per day was provided, much to Sherlock's derision-veiled delight. He would complain about the difficulty of eating something so big at first, and then very studiously go about gutting his food and examining the insides, having John name every bit of internal organ and bone and muscle and then prodding at them thoughtfully until John would snap at him to stop playing with his food and just eat it before it started stinking, for god's sake.

Anatomical studies about cows led into anatomical studies about men, and then dragons once John had managed to find a few books about the matter. He was himself interested and fully intending to become as knowledgeable about draconic medicine as he was of the more human variety, but Sherlock's interest was much more keen and precise. "Oh, what do I care about draconic colds?" he would snap, "Go back to the part about bullet wounds and broken bones and how they fester; that was much more interesting."

Unlike John had thought, Sherlock wasn't all that interested in war, or fighting in it – he was rather more interested in the effects of war; its effects on countries on a smaller degree but mostly he was focused on its effects on the individuals. War wounds, prizes, privateering, the commandeering of supplies, the pressing of men into service, Articles of War… his interests ranged from side to side, and John managed to keep him interested for one whole night, when they talked about mutinies on board ships and on land.

"I suppose we will have to join the war too, eventually," he muttered with disgust, when they were talking about what little John knew of aerial warfare. "And I will have to have a _crew_ ," he added, disgusted.

"That's the usual way of it, yes," John agreed and glanced at him – two weeks out of shell, Sherlock was now three times as large as any horse he had ever seen, and growing bigger. "You don't like the idea?"

"It sounds so very dull," Sherlock sighed, and lowered his head – laying it directly onto John's lap in his usual demanding way, nudging at his stomach until John rolled his eyes and went about scratching around the horns – they were growing longer and curvier and it seemed that the skin around their bases itched. "Flying in formation. Can you imagine it?"

"I've been in the military for ten years, I can imagine it very easily," John answered with a snort, and lowered the book he had been reading. "What would you rather do?"

Sherlock considered it for a moment, his pale eyes gleaming in the faint light of the dark lantern John used to read by. "Science could be interesting," he said thoughtfully. "I would like to experiment more, and with other things than just what happens to be at hand at the time. Do you think you could get me some Longwing acid?" he asked hopefully.

"Not right now, but who knows. We will be part of the Aerial Corps one way or the other, so you can probably ask some Longwing to give you some personally, one day," John answered and smiled a bit at the thought of a dragon doing science. With Sherlock, it didn't seem so odd – if there was a dragon likely to handle chemicals and watch their reactions, it was Sherlock. "Maybe you can do bit of science on the side."

"Hm. Investigating would perhaps be a thing to do too," Sherlock mused, nudging at his hand to get John to get at some particular spot. "But I don't suppose I could do that?"

"That depends on what sort of investigating you would like to do, I suppose," John said, circling his fingers around the horns and drawing a contented huff from the dragon. Unable to help himself, John smiled.

Sherlock didn't answer for a while, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he looked up at John. "What is the Longwing your sister serves on like?"

John blinked. "How do you know --?" he started to ask, and then shook his head. It didn't matter – Sherlock always knew, somehow, and it was as irritating as it was amazing, to have the _how_ explained. "I haven't got a clue – I've only seen him a couple of times at a distance. Harry says he's a good, steady dragon, so there's that."

"Hm," Sherlock said, and yawned before nudging at his hand again. "Little to the left, if you please," he said demandingly, and with a chuckle John complied.

 


End file.
